Let's face it, young men and naked ladies; sounds like hard work doesn't it.
In fact after your very first five minutes, life drawing simply becomes a discipline. You draw; she sits. You're dreaming of Ursula Andress; she looks like Bernard Manning. You're trying to get your drawing to look half-bloody-decent; she's got an itch that simply won't go away.
Then some overpaid lecturer (who pretends to be an expert) comes along and criticises everything you've spent the last two hours doing. You rub it all out and begin again. She's moved. I've moved. Your pencil breaks. Your hands are covered in charcoal dust. You give up and go to the pub. And, hell's teeth, it starts all over again the following day.
Weeks, months, years, you sit in front of these sad penniless models, scratching away with your 2B. They hate it; you hate it. The paper mills of Scandinavia are put on overtime; the lead mines of North Wales take on extra choristers.
Why do we do it? Because it makes us LOOK! That overpaid twit can tell at once if you're just 'SEEING'. So we are forced to LOOK, LOOK, and LOOK again.
The two examples above (circa 1969) are just throw-away reminders of those wonderful days. I've long forgotten her name, but she was a good model. She probably should have been sitting for Mr Rubens; just look at those thighs, or was I dreaming!